


Commitment and Vodka

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6480643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent thinks Eugene needs to get his drinking under control. Eugene thinks Vincent needs to stop sticking his nose in Eugene's business. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commitment and Vodka

The fact was, that even after Eugene was well convinced of Vincent’s commitment and had even started calling him Jerome instead of his real name, Vincent was not so convinced of Eugene’s commitment.

Well, it was obvious that their working relationship was unequal. Vincent would be the one bearing all the risk of it. He would be the one going off to work at Gattaca every day (if he could get the job, if he could only get the job), using Eugene’s blood to get past checkpoints and lying every minute he was in public for at least the next few years, possibly the rest of his life. He was the one who had to change his name, the one who had to dye his hair, cover his fingerprints, stretch his legs to make himself taller, and wear contacts that changed his eye color. If they got caught he would most likely take the worse rap too. Courts would go harder on an invalid cheating the system than on a poor, misused valid, in a wheelchair no less.

Vincent wanted to ignore it. He wanted to believe that, even if Eugene wasn’t taking the same risks as Vincent, he was just as invested. But there were certain…things…that Eugene kept on doing that Vincent just couldn’t ignore.

Mostly, it was the drinking. So it was when Vincent came upon Eugene nursing a vodka (and clearly not his first) at only three in the afternoon that they had their first real argument.

“Thought you’d get an early start?”

Eugene looked up from the glass, which he had placed on the table in front of him but was staring at. He smiled, eyes hazy. “Evening, Jerome. You’re looking very valid. Cut the glasses, though.”

Vincent had been practicing how to move like the valids did, since they had a particular kind of arrogance in their posture, and he was half tempted to thank Eugene for the compliment. Instead, he frowned and snatched the glass away, setting it out of Eugene’s reach. “It isn’t evening. What are you doing?”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Eugene said. “I’d like my drink back. You have my blood, my hair, my eye color, even my piss. I don’t think you need my vodka.” He was still smiling, and Vincent wasn’t sure whether or not to take offense.

“We were supposed to talk about plans for the interview today,” Vincent said.

“That’s not for a week and a half.”

“Only nine days now,” Vincent said pointedly. Nine days. In nine days he would be another person. And apparently the only person who would have his back was a drunkard.

“Of course,” Eugene said. He wheeled his chair back slightly and then over to where Vincent had placed the drink. When he reached for it, Vincent placed it further away again.

He looked Eugene in the eyes. The eyes that were supposed to be his eyes, were his eyes when he had his contacts in. Hazy eyes, hazy with alcohol and perhaps just a tinge of resentment. Vincent preferred his own.

“We can talk about the interview later,” Eugene said.

“You said we’d talk about it tonight.”

“Haven’t we talked enough already?” Eugene said. “You know my details by heart. You can tell my anecdotes as well as I can.” He shrugged. “You’re Jerome Morrow. You’ll be fine. Give me my drink back.” He began to wheel himself back from the table again and Vincent picked up the glass and held it to his chest.

“It’s starting in nine days,” Vincent said. “You need to get your head in the game.”

Eugene laughed. “You don’t need my head. You just need my hair.” He squinted. “And my blood, and, you know…”

It didn’t look like Eugene was going to sober up anytime soon, or get more serious. Vincent supposed it wasn’t entirely his fault that he was so off when he was intoxicated, but the fact that he was drunk was his fault to begin with. A week and two days before the interview. A week and two days before (if all went smoothly) they would be stuck living under the same name indefinitely.

And Vincent had been committed from the moment he met Eugene, had sealed his commitment with his aching legs, but it seemed Eugene still hadn’t committed at all.

“You’re right,” he said, sitting down at the table but still holding the glass of vodka out of Eugene’s reach. “The interview isn’t that important. I can handle it without any more help from you.”

Eugene nodded but warily. Even drunk, he could tell that Vincent wasn’t in a good mood no matter what he was saying.

“Still,” Vincent said, gesturing at Eugene. “This is not okay.”

“What? Don’t like vodka?”

“We’re embarking on a dangerous enterprise,” Vincent said. “If we get caught, we’re going to jail. Both of us. I’ll probably do more time than you, but you’ll have to live with the shame of ‘lending your ladder’. I won’t be able to stay at Gattaca, assuming I even get in. I won’t be able to bring in money for the bills, which is what I assume you care about.”

“Of course,” Eugene said, crossing his arms.

“And you aren’t taking this seriously,” Vincent said. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this yet, Eugene, but I’m staking my life on this. I gave up my identity. I gave up everything. This is my dream.”

He looked Eugene in the eyes. Hazy hazel stared back. Eugene lifted his hand. “Give me my vodka.”

Vincent’s hand tightened on the glass.

Eugene snorted. “Fine then. Pour it out in the sink, drink it yourself. You’ve taken my house, my clothes, my blood…Might as well drink it. Go ahead.”

He wheeled himself back from the table, and then away from it, and away from Vincent, heading down the hall towards his bedroom, a small room which clearly was never meant for sleeping. Because his original bedroom had been a floor up and was where Vincent was sleeping now.

He paused briefly and, turning his head back towards Vincent, said, “I told you to call me Eugene, didn’t I?”

“And I have,” Vincent said.

“Don’t tell me about giving up your life,” Eugene said. “Or your name.”

He slammed the door behind him.

///…///…///

By dinnertime he was mostly sober, which meant he couldn’t have been as drunk as Vincent had initially assumed. He barely spoke to Vincent as Vincent set the table and put the dinner out, wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

Only, when Vincent was pouring them both drinks, water, did he finally speak up. “What if I asked for wine?”

Vincent said, “Is that what you want?” He wasn’t sure what he would do if it were the case. When he’d met Eugene, when they’d first sealed the deal, he hadn’t thought he’d be dealing with an alcoholic. Which, fine, Eugene wasn’t that bad but he wasn’t exactly moderate either, and someone more stable would have been…nice. Though perhaps stable people didn’t sell their identities and genetic material to invalids they had just met. People who were both valid and sane perhaps never knew desperation.

If Eugene asked for wine tonight, Vincent wasn’t sure he could bring himself to pour it for him. But Vincent wouldn’t be home all the time. Soon (if all worked out, as he prayed to God every night it would, uncertain if there was even a God to hear him) he would be working at Gattaca for most of the day, every day, perhaps (if he dared to think so far) even managing a social life in Jerome Morrow’s name. He wouldn’t be at home to watch Eugene and keep him away from the bottle.

Eugene said, “Answer me first.”

Vincent said, “If we’re going to do this, you need to be on board. The drug tests aren’t entirely fake. They catch me with alcohol in my system, we’re just as sunk.”

“If we’re going to do this,” Eugene said. “Then we need to be equal partners. I’m enabling you to do something very illegal, remember? So I need to trust you. And you need to trust me.”

“Give me something to work with, then,” Vincent said.

“Give me a glass of wine,” Eugene countered. “Then we’ll talk.”

Vincent clenched his fists. But Eugene was refusing to meet his eyes, and he was clearly done talking. The man could get his own booze perfectly well out of the cupboard in the kitchen—wheelchair or no, it was easily within reach, as Vincent had no doubt Eugene had arranged it on purpose. It was more readily available than the breadbox. This was a challenge. A power play.

Time to play, then.

He got the wine out of the cupboard and poured Eugene a glass. Not all the way full, even though it was a wineglass, and no doubt Eugene could handle it. Halfway. If Eugene insisted on drinking all of it before they started hashing things out Vincent didn’t want him too tipsy to talk.

Eugene picked up the glass and turned it in a slow rotation in his fingers, his grip on it light. “Thank you for the wine, Jerome.” He raised the glass to his lips briefly, pressing it there for a moment but neither tilting the glass nor opening his mouth. Then, in one deliberate motion, he jolted the glass outwards and upwards, sending the wine straight at Vincent’s face.

Vincent spluttered.

A little wine had gotten in his mouth, and it didn’t taste all that bad. But he had barely avoided it getting it in his eyes (and he had been trying on the contacts and would have needed to clean them), and some had gotten in his hair and all over his face, stinking and sticky. And the shirt, white and rather expensive, was clearly ruined.

“Don’t worry about the shirt,” Eugene said, noticing where Vincent’s gaze had travelled. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Vincent took two steps to cross the distance between himself and Eugene and grabbed Eugene by the shirt, almost but not quite pulling him off the chair. “What the hell?”

“Careful, careful,” Eugene said. His eyes were wide, and his mouth twitched. A smile. The idiot was having to try not to smile. “Don’t hurt the cripple, remember?”

Vincent shoved him back into his seat. “Yeah. Explain.”

Eugene shrugged. “You were asking for it.”

“I got you your wine!”

“It’s my house and my wine and my vodka, for that matter. I ask for a drink, you don’t give me the third degree,” Eugene said. He paused. “Incidentally, did you end up drinking the vodka or not?”

“I poured it down the sink.”

“A waste.”

There was a brief silence. Wine dripped off Vincent’s shirt and hair onto the floor. Eugene leaned back in his seat. “I was going to apologize.”

“You were going to what.”

“Apologize,” Eugene said. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not a complete degenerate.” He smirked at the use of the slang that would soon apply to Vincent himself, but the smile quickly faded and he stared at the table. “I can drink what I want, but I’ll hold back for the next week. You’re under a lot of stress. I’ll be available for whatever you need.”

“I can’t do this alone,” Vincent said. For the moment he would take advantage of Eugene’s rare sincerity and forget the wine drying on his face, as itchy as it was. “Forget this week. I need someone I can rely on to pull this off, and you know it. You’ll have to be sober.”

Eugene said, “I can try.” A smile danced on his lips, the same smile, perhaps, that had threatened to burst onto them earlier. “It’s been getting a bit easier lately.”

“Well, good.” Vincent hadn’t been seeing the results of that. Eugene got drunk far too often.

“I think Eugene doesn’t drink as much as Jerome Morrow,” Eugene said. “It’s the only conclusion I can draw.”

“Are you sure you aren’t drunk right now?” The words made no sense. But even when sober, there was always something a bit off about Eugene, a bit wild.

“Oh, no. When I’m drunk I’m tame,” Eugene said. “It’s when I’m sober that you’ll be getting wine thrown at your face.” He winked. “I do think Jerome Morrow drinks more than Eugene. You’ll have to watch out for it.”

Vincent rolled his eyes. Sighing, he sat down at the table. His shirt was a lost cause—he would change it later. For now it was probably best to just drink.

“I’ll be sober,” Eugene said, when he saw that Vincent wasn’t going to say anything. “I’ll be what you need. We have a deal, after all.” He shrugged, finally setting the glass on the table. “I guess…I’m sorry. I’m trying to make this work.” He met Vincent’s eyes. “Be patient?”

The problem was, when those hazel eyes weren’t glazed over, they were painfully bright. Vincent sighed. “If you could try not to throw things at my face either, I’d appreciate it.”

“No promises. Keep acting like that, and the impulse may overwhelm me.”

“I’m just trying to act like Jerome Morrow,” Vincent said lightly. In charge, responsible, perhaps a bit controlling but mostly determined and focused. He had no doubt Eugene had once been all of those things. “It’s not my fault he’s a jerk.”

“He is a bit, isn’t he?” Eugene snorted. He raised his now empty glass. “To Jerome Morrow.” With a grin, he raised the empty glass to his lips and tipped his head back, straining for a final drop.

“To Jerome Morrow,” Vincent said. He took a gulp of water.

Eugene muttered, “May you hate him less than me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched Gattaca lately and it brought back a lot of feelings. So I wrote a fic, and I expect I'll be writing more in the near future. Someone suggested I cross post this to AO3 (it is also on fanfiction.net) and I was like, oh hey, maybe I should get an account there too. So I did. And here I am. :)


End file.
